


Spun Out

by QueenForADay



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hockey, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Skating, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Caring Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Dirty Talk, Established Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Figure Skater Jaskier, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Hockey Player Geralt, Insecure Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jealous Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Minor Aiden/Lambert (The Witcher), Past Jaskier | Dandelion/Valdo Marx, Porn With Plot, Possessive Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Quote: Lambert Lambert What a Prick (The Witcher), Smut, Soft Eskel (The Witcher), Top Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 22:34:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29923830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenForADay/pseuds/QueenForADay
Summary: Jaskier has been a professional figure skater for years, and he knows when to get to the rink early to get the good, unblemished ice. As he trains for his upcoming competition, he begrudgingly has to cross paths with the local college's hockey team.--Modern!AU with Figure Skater Jaskier and Hockey Player Geralt
Relationships: Aiden/Lambert (The Witcher), Eskel & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Lambert, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 35
Kudos: 114





	1. Chapter 1

_Turn. Turn. Turn. **Turn**_ —

His breath punches out of him as his legs crumble and send him to the ice. The moment his hand darts out and he makes sense of where he is, his coach’s voice echoes in his head. She doesn’t have to tell him anymore. He knows. _Learn by falling_. He grits his teeth and staggers back up, pushing off of one skate and building momentum again.

He’ll land this jump if it’s the last thing he does. No one wakes up before the sun just to fool around.

Yennefer watches from her perch on the wall. She’s nothing but a blur to him as he coasts along the outer rim of the ice, steps gliding until he can feel the sharp sting of cold air against his flushed skin. God only knows how long they’ve been here. And he suspects that he has few chances left to land this jump. He might have woken up before the dawn to collect his skates and have the rink for himself, but Yennefer hasn’t stopped complaining about the early hour since they got here. A plastic cup of tea is the only thing warming her hands as she keeps her eyes on him. He can feel them, burning in through his skin and muscles, _watching_. She’s been surprisingly silent. No corrections. No advice. She knows when to leave Jaskier alone and let him do the skill himself. He knows what he’s going wrong.

He builds up enough speed again, gliding from blade to blade until he spots his take off. His lips thin and he draws in a sharp breath, filling his lungs, as he swings his leg up and takes off.

 _Turn. **Turn**. **TURN**_.

Another fall to the ice. No matter how many times he’s fallen – and he’s fallen _a lot_ through his career – it’s always a shock as soon as his side or shoulder or hip hits the ice. It’s hard and unmoving, and if he can’t clamber back up to his feet soon enough, wet coldness will prickle at his skin and bones.

His lips stay thin, pressed into a pale line as his jaw visibly bulges. Having the ice to himself is a novelty, only gotten when he can wake up before other skaters and their coaches intent on doing the exact same thing as him, before the kids who want to blow off an hour or two drifting around the outer rim with their friends.

He staggers to his feet, wincing at the slightly dulled plume of pain in the outside of his thigh from where he hit the ice.

There’s a clicked tongue that echoes around the rink. “You don’t need it,” Yennefer calls from her perch, holding her steaming tea to her face. She hasn’t actually sipped any of it. The tip of her nose and her cheeks are flushed with the cold, and bundled in her thick jacket and scarf, his chest tightens. He needs her. As much as he’ll pointedly ignore her in practise and joke around with her, she’s been the best at driving him forward. Too many years had been lost to past coaches that couldn’t keep up with him, or know how to properly rein him back when he started barrelling down a path, hell-bent on breaking his body in half just to prove himself.

Jaskier sets his hands on to his hips, wincing at the pain in his thigh slowly worming further through the muscle, creeping down along his leg and into his knee. Old injuries that love to poke and prod at him, reminding him that he’s getting older and maybe he should stop. He glides over to her. She settles a withering glare on to him. “You don’t need it,” she repeats slowly, making sure he hears every word. “Your programme is already better than the others.”

His brows knit together. “But Valdo Ma—”

A single pointed finger is held up at him, silencing him instantly. “Valdo Marx has the difficulty,” she agrees, but because this is Yennefer, she always follows up with being right about everything, “but his execution is sloppy. The judges _always_ wring him dry on not being able to land his jumps properly. And he flaps his arms around in his choreography like a bloody chicken. You have the better execution score. Stick to what you have and nail it.”

She’s right. She’s always right because she’s Yennefer, and she knows all. Her words, not his; although he’ll begrudgingly admit it.

He doesn’t need a quad axel. It hasn’t been done because no one is dumb enough to break their knees or hip trying to land it, and the points stripped away from landing it badly, or not at all, could kill.

His chest heaves as he struggles to catch back his breath. The air is too thin and cold in the rink, stinging his lungs every time he fills his chest. Yennefer grabs his sweatshirt and holds it out to him. “I’m your coach and I say that you’re done for the day. Knowing you, you’ll probably stay here until you shatter your poor geriatric hip.”

He takes the order. The pain isn’t _that_ bad. And he’s skated on worse injuries before. He doesn't point out that she's older than him, a certified grandma at this rate, because he values his life. In an rink by themselves at this hour, no one is around to witness his murder and convict her.

Still, he knows when to back down from Yennefer. She might not have her skates on, but he knows that she’ll just storm the ice to drag him off of it herself; and she’s not above dragging him by the ankles, kicking and screaming.

The sweater is a relief, blooming some warmth back into his skin as he wrangles it on. Yennefer hops down from her perch and disappears into the booth, unhooking her phone from the speakers. It’s only now does he feel the strain of being up this early. His eyes sting no matter how hard he blinks and rubs at them, and the moment he steps off of the ice to get his guards, a yawn stretches his lips and clicks his jaw.

Yennefer looks more put-together than him. He can imagine what he looks like; all dark circles under his eyes and flushed skin beaded in sweat. Even at whatever-ungodly-time-it-is, Yennefer strides out in her grey slim coat, a black turtleneck beneath it and jeans. Heeled boots click against the floor as she joins him outside of the rink. “Listen,” she says simply, because she knows that even through all the shit he regularly gives her, he does value whatever it is she has to say. “I know you want to impress the judges. They already like you. They don’t give those kinds of scores to people they don’t like. You don’t need to over-do it with jumps that could end your career.”

Jaskier sets a hand on to his chest. “I didn’t know you had such high regard for me.”

Yennefer flashes him a smile, reaching up to pat a freezing hand on to his cheek. “Love you, prick. But God you make it difficult.”

Jaskier purses his lips at her, winking as she strides away. He glances at his watch. 07:03. If he knows Yennefer as well as he does, she’s going to burrow back into her bed and wake up at a more respectable hour. And she’s earned it.

He flexes out his back, wincing at the slight twinge in his shoulders and hip. In the eyes of the judges, he’s old. Or _older_ as he insists. He’ll be hanging up his skates in a few years; a few more if he can just learn to slow down, take his time, _stop trying to break himself_.

The whole arena is deathly silent. His footsteps almost echo as he pads back towards the locker rooms. Other figure skaters will start trickling in within the next few minutes, and he wants to be gone by then. The kids won’t flood the rink with their friends and parents until after school. Having the space to himself is a novelty he doesn’t take lightly.

He can’t stop the yawns that stretch his mouth as he takes his usual spot on the wooden bench, almost numb fingers fumbling with the laces of his skates for a moment before he manages to get them loose enough to yank them off.

His ears twitch at the familiar scuffle of guarded skates against the floor. Jaskier looks up just in time to catch a glimpse of three guys bustling into the locker room, chattering among themselves. His chest tightens.

One of them – with fiery hair barely held back into a tie – spots him. “Oh for fuck sake,” he grunts. The others freeze mid-step, following the man’s eye until they spot Jaskier too. The hockey guys are bigger than him. Not height-wise. He’s as tall as them, but they’re built differently. All broad shoulders and hulking muscle, barging into each other. How their skates manage to hold them up is beyond him.

Jaskier offers him a dazzling smile. “Warmed up the ice for you, Lambert.”

The man frowns, one deeply etched into his brow. “ _Ruined_ it, more like,” he grumbles, collecting his skates from his locker and putting them on with a huff. One of the others – cropped blond hair and a small scar nipping his cheekbone – checks his stretched out leg as he passes. Eskel barely escapes the converse shoe chucked at him.

Jaskier bites down on a laugh. He can feel Lambert glaring daggers at him. If he wants pristine and freshly polished ice, then he should join Jaskier in waking up before the crack of dawn. “You ruin the ice for me when you’re on it,” he argues nonetheless, stuffing the last of his things into his bag. The less time he can spend talking to Lambert the better. One of these days the maintenance guys are going to find the red-haired man with a skate’s blade buried in his skull. “Honestly, if my skate catches one more trench left behind by your hoofed feet I’ll—”

“Can we not have this argument? It’s too early.”

Jaskier blinks as Geralt joins them, already padded and skates tied, with his helmet tucked under his arm. The man’s voice is even lower than usual in the mornings. A familiar timber that threatens to shake a tremor through him. Jaskier’s lips thin. He gathers his bag and skates, happy to try and shower at home and not run the risk of spending more time than necessary with the hockey guys. “Geralt,” he says primly as he passes, trying his best not to brush the man’s side as he slips out through the door.

Geralt hums. “Jaskier.”

“Get a room,” Lambert groans. “If you’re going to be making eyes at each other at least do it in private.”

“No point,” Eskel sighs, standing and shifting his weight from one skate to another. “The walls are so thin in our apartment that you’ll hear them anyway.”

Colour warms Jaskier’s cheeks. He’ll blame it on sweat, on working out, on spending almost two hours jumping – and falling – on ice in the dead of winter. He presses his lips together into a thin line, not confident in saying anything he’ll regret. Just as he breaks out into a slightly quicker walk, confident that he can make it out of the arena in record time, he hears the sharp crowed laugh of Lambert echoing behind him.

* * *

“He’s just the worst and you know it. Put your weight more on this leg. Good. Why don’t you just kick him out?”

Geralt snorts. “Because he pays a third of our rent, just like the rest of us. If anything, you should start chipping in.”

Jaskier glowers at him. The arms around his chest tighten. He absolutely _does not_ pout. “If I start paying rent then they’ll know we’re together.” The rink is just as empty as it was in the morning, but now the ice has been chipped at and repolished.

Geralt arches an eyebrow. “They already know we’re together, dear.”

“They know we’re fucking. But God forbid Lambert Blake finds out that you’re dating a figure skater. What did he call me the other day? Twinkle Toes?”

A small smile threatens to curl the corner of Geralt’s lip. Jaskier spots it, and the monumental effort the man gathers to try and smoothen it out. “ _Geralt_.”

The other man’s chuckle is light and breathless. “Look,” he says, pushing away from the rink’s edge and gliding over to Jaskier. He doesn’t drop his arms. They stay pointedly over his chest. Geralt might look at him with fond golden eyes and a smile curled along his lips, but he’s cross. Definitely cross. He turns his head away when Geralt tries to get him to look at him. “Are you keeping this a secret because you don’t want the others to be bothered about it, or is there something you’re not telling me?” Something twitches his brows. “Are you happy being with me?”

 _Oh, fuck Geralt Rivia to hell_. Jaskier sighs. “I _am_ happy. Of course I am.” He can’t look at Geralt. If he catches any sort of glint in those golden eyes then their practice will be doomed. It’s hard enough to not let his hands linger on Geralt’s shoulders or hips or legs when he shuffles him into a different stance and position along the rink’s edge. He takes a measured breath. “I want to keep you to myself for a bit. I’m not good with the whole... _relationship_...thing and...”

He doesn’t have to say it. Geralt already knows. His eyelids flutter shut at the familiar press of lips to his forehead. Geralt catches his chin between his thumb and finger and lifts it. Even in the shitty fluorescent lights above them, blinding the ice, Geralt’s golden hues still render him speechless. “If you want to keep this to ourselves, then that’s fine by me. Whatever makes you comfortable.”

He’s sweet. The burling mass of muscle that can crush a guy against the shielded walls of the rink, who has had his fair share of scrapping fights in matches over rivals checking Eskel – because one should _never_ mess with a goalie, apparently. He’s a _sweetheart_. Jaskier’s chest tightens.

“Your leg position is awful,” Jaskier says simply, drawing in a steady breath and setting his hands to Geralt’s chest. Even through the layers beneath his palms, he can feel the man’s heart beating and the warmth of his skin. He looks down, kicking one of his skates to the side into a better position. “Let your knee bend but don’t overdo it. You don’t want that shit popping out. Trust me.”

Geralt smiles and looks at him fondly as he worms his way out of a conversation about _before_. Before Geralt, before the anxiety of others finding out about them, before all of it. Geralt already knows everything so why linger on it. He’s even promised to run into Jaskier’s ex on the ice should they share it one afternoon. If Valdo Marx is smashed against the rink’s edge one day, well then, Jaskier wants to be there for it; with his phone, live-streaming.

Geralt moves and does what he’s told. He knows that only chasing Jaskier down with more questions and assurances will drive him further inside of his own head. Better to leave it, he’s learned. Their private lessons after Geralt’s classes and Jaskier’s practise aren’t new. Geralt’s coach suggested it. He isn’t unused to sharing the ice with the hockey guys, but _teaching_ them is another matter. He only took on Geralt because of their relationship. That, and he knows that he would have splattered the ice with Lambert’s blood if he had to teach him. He knew how to get on Jaskier’s bad side almost like second-nature.

It seems to be helping. Geralt skates better; his corners and sharp turns are cleaner and more efficient. As long as Vesemir is happy, Jaskier is happy. And Geralt can stay in the local college, with him. He’s deferred his place to skate. His place will be held for him until he decides to return. But his skating is more important.

He isn’t sure how long they spend there, perched by the edge of the rink. When he lifts his leg to show Geralt the proper way to balance, he clicks his tongue when the hockey player’s knee bends. “Don’t bend too much,” he corrects, gliding to Geralt’s side and lowering himself down. Geralt stiffens under his hands as he sets them to Geralt’s leg, smoothening out the line and showing Geralt where to let his knee bend. He peers up at the other man, flashing him a smirk at the familiar look in the man’s eyes. The gold slowly being swallowed by dilating pupils. The clench of his jaw. Jaskier lets his hands linger. “Got it?”

Geralt’s throat bobs as he swallows. “Yeah.”

Jaskier doesn’t drift away. They’ve spent enough time learning new skills. He lets his hands slowly drift up Geralt’s thigh. The other man barely manages to suppress a shiver. “Good,” Jaskier says, flashing him a smile that’s all teeth. “I think we should call that a day, hmm?”

“ _Absolutely_.”

* * *

Geralt’s apartment is compromised. If Eskel and Lambert really can hear them through the walls, he wants to be as far away from them as he can physically get. And Jaskier’s apartment across town does the trick.

He lets the floor fly out of his hand, clicking shut behind them as he bundled the other man inside, eager to keep their lips attached and their hands clutching whatever they can. A fistful of Geralt’s jacket, the other man’s hands on his hips and guiding him through the apartment. At least one of them is looking. Not that he would have to part with Geralt for too long. They’ve spent nights here too because of Jaskier’s lack of a roommate. He has one – Shani – but she’s taken on so many shifts in the local hospital she’s never home when Jaskier is.

Geralt hums against Jaskier’s lips. “Are you only teaching me to get your hands on me?” he gasps, wrangling his leather jacket off of him and dropping it. Where it lands, neither of them seems to care. A trail of clothes leads from the door to Jaskier’s room, shoes and belts, jeans and sweaters left behind as Jaskier bares more and more of the other man in front of him.

Jaskier’s lips are full and soft and bitten. He sets his fingers to the hem of Geralt’s shirt, wrangling it over him and chucking it into some corner of the room. “Oh absolutely,” he says breathlessly, humming into another kiss Geralt catches him in. He loves everything about Geralt. The plains of his muscles underneath his hands, the tremor of his heart as it trembles in his chest, the way Geralt can cover him and pin him down, but runs his fingers over his skin so lightly gooseflesh bobbles his skin.

Geralt laughs against his lips, but catches him and lowers him down on to Jaskier’s bed. Barely made, but at least the sheets are new. The more time he spends at the rink, the less time he can spend at home seeing to things like housework. Not that it matters. Geralt has seen his apartment in worse conditions; pizza boxes stacked in the kitchen, dishes stuffed into the sink with no hope of finding their way to the dishwasher. Not that _his_ apartment is any better; shared with two cavemen.

He settles back against the plush give of the comforter, arching his neck as Geralt sets his lips and teeth to it. A gasp wrenches out of his throat at the first teasing nip to the line of his neck. Jaskier slaps Geralt’s shoulder. “Don’t leave marks,” he moans, setting his hands on stripping Geralt of the last of his clothes. “I have practise in the morning and, _fuck_ , I’m **not** explaining to anyone how I got this.”

There’s a sharp huff of a laugh just under his jaw. “I’ve sent you to practise with worse,” Geralt hums. His hands wander, skimming Jaskier’s side and palming the arches of his hips. They’ve spent enough time together to know where to touch and kiss to lure the right kinds of noises from their throats. Geralt only parts with him for a moment to shuffle out of his underwear and divest Jaskier of his, crawling back over Jaskier against and luring him into a deep kiss.

This is familiar. The legs he lets fall and bracket around Geralt’s hips, the sure grind of the other man’s hardening cock against his, the firm chest and arms keeping him pinned. Jaskier threads his fingers through Geralt’s hair, tugging it at a particularly firm rub of their cocks together. He gasps against the man’s lips. “Bedside table,” he moans, letting his head fall back against the pillows, watching each muscle on Geralt flex and move with a surprising amount of fluidity.

He reaches over and grabs a half-emptied bottle of lube and a condom, setting them outside of Jaskier’s hip as he pulls back. Fingers lightly trail down Jaskier’s chest and stomach, golden eyes following in their wake. It’s a struggle to not wither. Geralt likes to look at him; watch him fall apart under his fingers or lips or cock. His arms are strewn at either side of his head, on display and pliant. He arches an eyebrow. “Come on then, Rivia,” he murmurs, letting his thigh hook higher on Geralt’s hip. “You have me all to yourself now.”

There’s a glint in Geralt’s eye. Something that has a smirk crawling along Jaskier’s lips and a sharp laugh lured out of him as Geralt wets his fingers with lube, warming it for a moment before shifting and rearranging his legs and hips. Golden eyes don’t leave his as the tip of one finger brushes his hole, teasing and light and not at all what he needs. A whine slips out of his throat. “ _Geralt_.”

“This is what you do in the rink when we’re together,” the other man replies, a coy smirk playing on his lips. “This is payback. You’re a tease. Do you really have to touch my thighs and hips just to show me a simple movement?”

 _Absolutely_. It must show on his face clear enough, even through the glow of the streetlights outside streaking in through the windows, and the warm glow from his bedside lamp. Geralt snorts. “You’re terrible.”

“ _Me_?” Jaskier balks. He gestures vaguely to Geralt’s chest. “What about you? Here I am, waiting to be ravished, and my boyfriend is insulting me.”

 _Boyfriend_. The word slips out so easily that it doesn’t even click with him that he’s said it until something in Geralt’s eyes change. Jaskier’s breath catches in his throat and, for a moment, he might just feel his heart hammering in his chest, wanting to break out through his ribs. Geralt fingers still from where they’ve been teasing him, and Jaskier fights back a whine of protest. The corners of Geralt’s lips lift; a shy smile, one he flashes at Jaskier in public when he’s sure no one is looking. Their smile, one to be shared with each other. And it’s unusual seeing it now.

Jaskier’s chest fills as he draws in a steady breath. “Don’t freeze up on me,” he tries to laugh, wincing slightly when it comes out more of a huffed rasp.

Geralt watches him for a moment. “You said it.” It’s not a question. And not quite a statement either. Jaskier watches the man prowl over him, tendrils and strands of light hair almost curtaining them as Geralt catches his lips in a long and slow kiss. Heat blooms through Jaskier, curling his toes. He reaches up, setting his hands to Geralt’s shoulder. His fingers dig into the swell of muscle there, scrabbling to keep the other man close and against him and warm away the chill.

When they part, Geralt’s eyes linger on his lips. “I love you,” he murmurs, a gentle rumble that comes from the centre of his chest.

Jaskier’s tongue sits heavy in his mouth. “I. I,” he rasps. The words stick in his throat, refusing to budge no matter how much he wills them to. God, he means it. He loves Geralt. He loves him so much it’s terrifying. The man has his barely stitched and taped together heart in his hands, and Jaskier hopes that it won’t be smashed to the ground again.

Geralt shakes his head, nudging their noses together as a breath lingers between them. “You don’t have to say it, I know it’s difficult.” His voice is a gentle rumble washing over him. “I just needed to. Take your time. Be sure of yourself and your feelings. I’ll wait.”

Jaskier’s eyes sting, threatening to brim with tears. He blinks, taking a shaking breath. “This took a wholesome turn, didn’t it?” he breathes, never one to let soft emotions sit between them for too long.

Geralt’s lips stretch into a grin. He sets his forehead against Jaskier’s. “Would you rather it gets kinky? Where did you leave the handcuffs and the rope?”

At that, Jaskier’s mouth dries. He laughs, because Geralt has the same shitty humour as him, and curls his arms over the man’s shoulders. “They’re in the dresser,” he mumbles, lifting his hips. “But if you leave this bed I’ll simply die, so I’d rather you stay here.”

Geralt hums. “Sounds like a plan.” Jaskier’s eyes flutter closed at a brush of Geralt’s fingertip against him, curling around and teasing, before its slick enough to pierce. A moan catches in his throat. Their breath mixes between them as Geralt buries a finger in him, already curling, seeking out that spot inside of him that will have his fingers curling and scratching at his shoulders.

It’s warm. It’s so warm and the air is already thick with the scent of them. It’s intoxicating. Geralt leans down, setting his lips to Jaskier’s neck. Moans tremble out of him with every zing of pleasure sizzling through his skin and muscles. Wet kisses lavished to his neck, the barest hints of teeth joining them, alongside another probing finger, waiting to join the first. Jaskier’s cock leaks between them, rubbing against the firm plain of Geralt’s abdomen.

Two fingers delve into him, curling and stretching, and lithe whines slip from his lips. Geralt scrapes his teeth over his collarbone, threatening to nip and mark. Maybe if he wears one of his more modest neckline shirts he’ll be able to let Geralt mark him. God, going to the rink tomorrow still sore and worn—

Jaskier’s breath catches in his throat as Geralt curls his fingers, brushing the spot inside of him that has sparks blinking behind his eyelids. “Geralt,” he whines, clutching at the man’s shoulders. “Get in me, _please_.”

The other man gathers him close, humming against his jaw. “Let me feel you,” he murmurs, stretching his fingers and delving them in deeper. Jaskier clenches around him, walls fluttering and his fingernails digging into Geralt’s shoulders. He might not be allowed to leave marks on Jaskier, but Jaskier revels in the fact that Geralt is covered from head to toe for his practice. He can – and he _has_ – littered his skin in bites and scratches. A third finger prods at his entrance. “You’re still tight.”

“I don’t care.” He swats at the man’s shoulders. “I swear to God, Geralt Rivia—”

“-Whiny bottom,” Geralt chuckles against his jaw, lavishing it kisses as he pushes another finger in, listening to the moan tremble up through Jaskier’s throat. Geralt isn’t small. He can fell the other man’s cock pressing insistently against his thigh. It’s better to be stretched – but God alive he wants Geralt _in him_ —

His nails dig into Geralt’s shoulders, welts and grooves left behind as he spreads his legs out, rocking down on the fingers delving in and out of him. He doesn’t know how much time slips by. A few minutes. A goddamn hour. Who knows? When Geralt’s fingers pull out of him, he whines, eyes opening and searching. He wasn’t even aware he had closed them.

Geralt soothes a hand to his hip. “I got you, hang on,” he murmurs, fishing the condom from wherever it had been lost to the sea of ruffled sheets. Jaskier’s mouth dries as he watches the other man catch the wrapped with his teeth, ripping it open and sliding the condom around his hard cock. Jaskier moans at the sight of it, already feeling it in him and the delicious stretch and full feeling that comes with it.

Geralt lifts over him, a gentle hand settle at his hip as he sets the head of his cock to Jaskier’s hole. Golden eyes flicker up to him, a question behind them. Jaskier nods, hooking his free leg over the man’s hip and setting his ankle to the small of his back.

When Geralt pushes in, a moan lodges in Jaskier’s throat. Through the rush of blood through his ears, he listens to Geralt: to the tight and wrecked groan that’s hooked out of him. He feels every inch of Geralt pressing further and further into him until he bottoms out, a punched-out huff of breath leaving them both as Geralt bows over him, setting his arms on either side of his head and dipping down to lure Jaskier into a long and languid kiss.

He stays for a moment, feeling Jaskier tighten and clench around him. The ankle hooked to the back of his hip doesn’t press or fall away. They lounge in each other for a moment, content to kiss and feel and keep to themselves.

The first roll of Geralt’s hips against him has him gasping into their kiss. Jaskier’s eyes flicker shut as his lips stretch around a silent moan. Geralt buries his nose into the hollow of Jaskier’s neck, filling his lungs with the man’s scent tinged with his own.

Jaskier’s fingernails dig into his shoulders. “ _Move_ ,” he gasps, a tremor of pleasure shaking through him as Geralt’s cock brushes his prostate. He’s big and there’s nothing inside of him that Geralt doesn’t touch. Jaskier moans, letting his head loll back on to the pillows and lounging in the pleasure that washes over him like waves. “There. There, Geralt, please. Harder. Fuck me.”

Geralt’s hips rock back, his cock almost leaving Jaskier entirely before his hips snap forward. Jaskier’s groan joins the filthy sound of their skin slapping together. Jaskier’s hold on Geralt’s shoulders tighten. “ _Yes,_ please Geralt, fuck me, baby.”

Geralt grunts against his skin, rolling and snapping his hips into sure thrusts that leave Jaskier gripping on to him for his life. He’s thankful that he doesn’t have golden eyes to look at. Sometimes looking at Geralt is too much. It’s been a swift end to a few nights over the past couple of months of them sharing a bed. He looks at Geralt and he sees so much it renders him speechless. He reaches up, carding his fingers through the hair stuck to Geralt’s nape with sweat, and knots it. A tight groan punches out of the other man.

“Feel good, baby,” Jaskier whines, feeling wet gasped breaths against his neck. He clamps down around Geralt’s cock, the heel dug into the small of his back guiding. “You’re _huge_ , fuck. Filling me up so good.”

Geralt grunts, pulling away from Jaskier’s neck to hover above him. His eyes are closed, scrunched up tight as his brow is tight. One of his hands, knotted in the sheets beside Jaskier, reaches down, fingers curling around his cock. Jaskier’s eyes roll, eyelids fluttering shut. It’s good. It’s so good that he’s starting to float away.

A ragged moan tumbles out of Geralt’s lips. “Close,” he gasps, blinking his eyes open to try and catch Jaskier’s. “’m close, baby, you feel so good around me. So wet and tight.”

His words wash over him and Jaskier keens. The sure grip around his cock, Geralt’s hand pumping up and down and matching his thrusts; it’s edging him closer and closer. “Come for me, Geralt. Fill me up, baby. _Fuck_. That’s it. Good, I can feel you baby. You’re so close aren’t you? Come for me.”

Geralt’s brows knit and tighten. He bows over Jaskier, gathering him close as he sets his forehead on to Jaskier’s chest. His hips roll and snap, thrusts slowly becoming erratic until they still and a sharp groan punches out of Geralt. The hand around Jaskier’s cock tightens, and it’s just enough to lure him over the edge. Jaskier’s walls flutter around him, milking his cock as he floods the condom. Geralt tenses under his hands before he eventually slackens. Jaskier gathers him close, head buzzing and skin prickling with each sensation. The wetness splattered between them is forgotten about.

Geralt breathes against his chest, matching each deep lungful of air Jaskier draws in to steady his heart. It’s hammering against his ribcage, threatening to burst through at any moment. Jaskier’s legs fall from Geralt’s hips. His hands skim over the man’s upper arms and shoulders, making note of every tremor that shakes through him.

He doesn’t know how much time passes before Geralt finally lifts his head, taking a measured breath before rocking back. Both of them wince as he slips free of Jaskier.

He’s floating. Jaskier looks up at the mottled ceiling. His apartment downtown is far from the local college, but close enough to the ice rink to keep him on track with his training. A mismatch of furniture and trinkets fill the apartment, gathered by both him and Shani over the years of living here. Even his bedsheets don’t match, but they’re a vaguely similar shade of grey and who even cares. Jaskier’s head rolls as the bed dips. He watches with bleary eyes as Geralt slips away, disposing of the condom and lifting up one of Jaskier’s old shirts lying on the floor. He nods to it, a question unspoken.

Jaskier blinks slowly. _Sure_. Geralt pads back over to the bed, handing the shirt to the man and watches with hooded eyes as Jaskier cleans his stomach. The shirt falls to the floor and Jaskier forgets about it the second it leaves his hand. Geralt returns to the bed, as he often does. He lingers, spends the afterhours pressed to Jaskier’s side, or entangled in him, and they stay with each other for a while.

Jaskier’s chest tightens. Geralt settles down beside him and sighs as soon as sinks into the mattress and bedding and lays claim to Jaskier’s side by throwing a familiar strong arm over his waist. The question bubbles up Jaskier’s throat before he can stop it.

“Stay?”

Geralt is still. And silent. An argument is perched on his tongue. Jaskier knows there is; he put it there. The others will wonder where he is. They’ll blow up his phone with calls and texts. And he _really_ doesn’t want to have to explain that he’s just spending the night away because he knows what Lambert is like.

But Geralt’s words from earlier stalk through the darker corners of his mind, nipping at him to remember and linger on them for longer than necessary. Golden eyes watch him for a moment, scanning his face for any sort of hint that it could be a joke; that Jaskier doesn’t mean it and that he _can_ actually stay.

Jaskier’s chest tightens as Geralt leans into his touch, sighing contently as his fingers trace over the man’s cheekbone. It’s enough to start lulling him to sleep. Before he can wander too far down, Geralt hums. “Alright,” he rasps, gathering Jaskier close to fit himself against the other man. They’re an entangled mess of limbs with every part of them touching.

The knot in his chest loosens. He can breathe. His lungs fill and push against his ribcage.

And he can drift away; a familiar weight against his side that helps him sink deeper and deeper into sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

“I don’t see why we all have to go.”

Eskel keeps his eyes on the road, but Geralt does watch his grip on the wheel tighten. “ _Because_ , like it or not, Geralt’s boyfriend is skating in a very important meet. And we’re _all_ supporting him.”

The word still catches him. _Boyfriend_. The bumbling conversation both he and Jaskier had with his teammates, waiting on their replies with stilled breaths as they stood hand-in-hand in the middle of Geralt’s apartment. Lambert’s scowl didn’t move from his face. _You’re interrupting my essay writing to tell me something I already know?_

The tightness in his chest has loosened. He can walk by Jaskier and not tense if other people are in the room. Their fingers will thread together and Jaskier will peck kisses on to the arches of his cheekbones. In the last couple of days, Geralt’s arm will coil around Jaskier’s waist, no matter where they are.

Going to the man’s meet is the apparent next step.

Jaskier blinked at the realisation that his boyfriend and his friends would be cheering him on from the stands. He rubbed the back of his neck and his cheeks flushed a wonderful shade of crimson. _Alright, just, I don’t know, don’t be fucking hockey bros about it._

Honestly, they weren’t brainless meatheads. They knew how to behave when the situation calls for it. And he suspects that a figure skating meet wouldn’t be the best place for three hulking guys with painted faces and huge homemade signs would be appreciated; by Jaskier, the judges, or just about anyone.

That being said, he had to wrangle a foghorn out of Lambert’s hand as they got into the car. Because even though he’s twenty-one, Lambert is a fucking child masquerading in an adult’s body and can’t be trusted with anything.

The rink is on the other side of town, and most of the ride over is spent with Geralt explaining how figure skating actually works. It suddenly dawned on the other two that they hadn’t any idea of what it was Jaskier actually did. Jaskier explained it to him once. And in their private sessions together, he saw how well the other man could skate. Jumps he didn’t know the names of – that all looked the same in his opinion – done with such ease, it was like Jaskier could glide and fly across the ice without even breaking a sweat.

Cars are already parked in front of the rink, and they just about manage to find a space nearby. Geralt steps out and bundles his jacket tighter around himself. Why they have to go from a cold outside to a cold rink, who knows. Why even hold skating championships in the winter? Geralt watches a few kids scamper forward, slipping from their parents and rushing into the rink’s arena. A few of them have small signs. A blue and silver one catches his eye, just through the sheer amount of glitter reflecting the thin winter sunlight.

**FLY HIGH**

His chest tightens.

There’s grumbling beside him as Lambert falls into step with him. “No big glitter signs, no face paint, no foghorns,” Lambert groans, “what the fuck are we supposed to do?”

Eskel checks his shoulder as he passes, darting out of the way just in time to avoid getting snagged by Lambert’s arms. “You stay quiet and clap when programmes are over. Understood?”

 _Behave_. The rink is packed, already bustling with murmured conversation and people trying to find their seats. Geralt leads them to one of the long aisles, where they’ll be able to watch Jaskier’s whole programme perfectly. He wrings his hands together, otherwise he’ll start picking at the fraying edge of his ripped jeans. Eskel nudges his shoulder. “He’ll do great,” he says with a sure smile.

Eskel’s words manage to loosen some of the tightness in his chest. God, is this how Jaskier feels when he watches his games through the feed from home? It’s awful. His stomach twists and churns, and no matter how much of the crisp cold rink air he breathes in, it can’t quite settle him.

Lambert bristles beside him, hands stuffed into his pockets. A petulant scowl is etched into his face. It’s not that he hates Jaskier. He really doesn’t – for all the comments and jabs he makes at the other man. But he doesn’t like _this_ , being somewhere new and crowded and watching something that is going to be so goddamn boring—

The music pumping overhead changes into something softer, and from the dim of the chatter around them, Geralt assumes they’re ready to start. He glances down at the desks lined up in front of them, along the rail of the rink. Judges perched and poised and ready to critique. Jaskier’s hatred of them is well-known. _Honestly Geralt, who even comes up with this kind of GOE score? Just slap that girl in the face while you’re at it._

He doesn’t understand it. Jaskier says words and waves his hands and points at videos he shared with him, and Geralt tries to follow; but all the jumps look the same, and while the dance is beautiful, he doesn’t understand why judges are so harsh. Jaskier doesn’t understand either, and he’s spent his whole life on the ice. If anyone does manage to find out why judges have sticks up their asses, he’d like to be passed the message.

A far-too bubbly commentator comes over the speakers, riling the crowd back up as they’re ready to start the competition. From what he does understand, they’ll be here for two programmes. One short, one long. He hasn’t informed Lambert of that, but he did make sure that the man was well fed before leaving, just in case he got hangry.

God, it’s like looking after a child.

There’s a soft chuckle behind him. “First time watching?”

Geralt peers over his shoulder. An older woman with greying hair pulled back into a neat bun, and a well-insulated jacket keeping her safe from the worst of the chill. She’s impeccably put together; eyes shrouded in a dark shadow and lips perfectly painted. Geralt’s mouth dries. He nods, not quite trusting himself to speak.

The woman offers him a small smile. “Do you have someone competing? Of course you do, look at you. Poor thing.” She leans down, a fresh scent of lavender and citrus wisping by his nose. “Take it from a seasoned pro – he’ll do just fine. You’ll only make yourself ill.”

Eskel snorts. “That’s what I told him on the ride over,” he says back to the lady, rolling his eyes dramatically. She laughs and pats Geralt’s shoulder. He turns back around when the announcer starts to call the first skater to the ice. From Lambert’s twisted scowl on his face, he’s sure that he missed the fact that there are two programmes to be completed today. Well, he was going to find out eventually.

It’s the men’s day today, with the woman being tomorrow. It’s just as packed, with kids perched on their parents' laps and craning their heads to get good looks at the skaters gliding around on the ice. Each man that steps out on to the ice and completes his programme, Geralt’s stomach drops lower into his gut. Every time the announcer bellows overhead to lead someone new in that isn’t Jaskier, he feels his heart start to chatter against his ribcage, about to burst out on to the ground in front of him.

Lambert watches, maybe just for something to do while he’s here. His scowl even starts to slip away the more he watches. Eskel, on Geralt’s other side, applauds every skater that starts and finishes; even wincing when a few of the guys miss their jumps and smack on to the ice. “Oh Christ, that’s going to leave a mark,” he says through gritted teeth, watching a guy in a billowing red shirt stagger back to his feet and continue with the music as best as he can.

He’s watched figure skating before – not just for Jaskier. The other man might have been a heavy hand in that, sure, but when they spend time together in cafes and restaurants around the city, or he’s bundled in Jaskier’s bed, then he will fish out his phone and show Geralt new programme ideas for himself, or a particularly good competitor from years ago who he idolises. It’s Jaskier’s thing. He likes watching the other man get feverish about his sport. He’s sure he’s talked Jaskier’s ear off at many points with explaining the intricacies of hockey to him.

The short programmes don’t take much time. Being only a couple of minutes long, by the time he starts getting into a routine, the skaters have posed at the sharp end of their song and are replaced by the next.

He stiffens at a familiar name echoing through the speakers overhead.

“ _Please welcome to the ice, skating for Troupe de Cidaris, Valdo Marx!_ ”

Lambert turns to him. He can feel the other man’s gaze burning into the side of his face. Geralt’s jaw flexes but he keeps his eyes on the ice; on a glittering and peacocking Valdo soaking in the applause being rained down on him. Neither of them move. Eskel’s hands hold still on his lap, as do Lambert’s. Both of them glower down on to the ice.

They might not know a lot about Jaskier, but rumours spread like wildfire. Valdo’s programme is gaudy; a dazzling put-on smile he flashes at judges as he glides around, his costume a sparkling mass of gems and jewels that cling to his skin. There’s less choreography in his programme, Geralt notices. Every glide across the ice is into a new jump and spin, bumping up the difficulty score. The judges around the rink keep their eyes on him, only parting for a moment to consult the screens in front of them and scribble on their papers.

Valdo skates, but he doesn’t glide. There seems to be a fight trying to get the speed up and launch him up into his jumps. A smirk catches the corner of Geralt’s lip when one of Valdo’s skates catches the ice wrong, his leg wobbling underneath him. He recovers quickly, but the smile stretched across his face falters.

Jaskier’s voice fills his mind. All the critiques the other man would offer no matter what programme of Valdo’s they would watch. _See how he stumbles out of that one, Geralt? Judges will skin him for it. It’s the only thing they’re good for._

Valdo’s music pulses overhead. It’s some upbeat remix of some popular song on the radio. Handfuls of people dotted throughout the crowd grin as he looks out into the stands, dazzling them with a beaming smile. Valdo swivels, looking over his shoulder and spotting where his next take-off is to be. Even from the middle of the stands, Geralt watches the man’s eyes glint and glare as he thins his lips and forces himself up into the air, spinning as quickly as he can; but leaning slightly to the side. It’s a big jump. How many rotations, Geralt has no idea. It’s a blur. But Valdo’s legs are crossed as his skates meet the ice and he tumbles, arm stretched out to protect his face from smashing into the ice.

A murmur washes through the crowd. Valdo gathers himself quickly, just in time for a final quick spin and a pose as the music stops. A courteous applause rumbles around them. The men to his side stay still.

Valdo salutes the crowd, his smile not as bright or gleaming as it once was as he skates back to the gates. His coach, a well-put-together middle-aged woman tries to mutter something to him, but he pushes her away, guarding up his skates before walking further away from the rink.

The announcer calls out a score overhead. It joins the rest of them, and there’s a lilting murmur as Valdo’s name perches on top. Difficulty and a daring attitude matter more to the judges, apparently.

Geralt’s breath catches in his throat when he sees Jaskier step out and test the ice beneath him. He shifts his weight between skates, testing the laces and making sure they’re moulded to his foot. He stays by the rink’s edge for a moment, a silent conversation between him and his coach. Yenn. Geralt cranes his head. No words will reach him, but he does see the woman flash him a beaming smile, lifting her fists to bump his and send him on his way.

The commentator’s voice rings overhead, and he can barely hear it through the blood rushing in his ears. “ _Representing Vengerberg Elite, please welcome to the ice: Jaskier Pankratz!_ ”

Small glittering signs pop up around the arena, young kids and their parents beaming down at the ice. It all slips away as Jaskier glides around, arms extended and welcoming the applause. A smile breaks out across Eskel’s face as he applauds – notably louder than the last few dozen times. Even Lambert claps, craning his neck to get a better view of the man gliding around the rink and getting into position.

 _Oh God_.

Geralt’s tongue sits heavily in his throat.

Jaskier is more graceful than he’ll ever be. Geralt is a steamroller on the ice, built for ramming other guys into the sides of the rink. Jaskier _dances_ , he flies around without even breathing. The sharp bright lights illuminating the rink catch every sparkle of his costume; a fitted shirt that clings to every stretch of him, a feathered detail coiled around his torso, black fading into a stark white as it climbs towards his neck. He listened to every detail Jaskier told him about his costume; how it’s meant to represent the choreography and story the skater is trying to tell.

And Jaskier has always been a bird on the ice, gliding across it without any difficulty. Yennefer’s suggestion of _Icarus_ might have been an inside joke – one that Geralt certainly wasn’t being let in on – but Jaskier looks beautiful in it.

He settles into position, an arm stretched out and waiting as the music blinks to life. Geralt struggles to breathe; if not from nerves then just awe at watching Jaskier move and glide. It’s so different from what they do. At his first jump, Geralt’s fingers dig into the meat of his thigh as he watches Jaskier launch up into the sky and spin like lightning, before landing perfectly to skate away. The three of them join in on the applause. Geralt’s chest swells at the sight of so many people cheering him on. The music lulls over the speakers, luring Jaskier with it as he skates around the rink, jumps perfectly landed and his spins quick and efficient.

All of the jumps look the same to him. It’s hard to figure out what is which, but he claps and cheers all the same. Lambert sits that bit straighter, craning his head to look over people in front of them, watching Jaskier glide and switch between blades, and leap into the air. Lambert claps his hands sharply as Jaskier lands perfectly. “That’s it, Twinkle Toes!” he joins with the rest of them, crows of Jaskier’s name and encouragements. The corners of Geralt’s lips twitch. For someone who had to be dragged here against his will, Lambert finally seems to be enjoying himself.

He wishes Jaskier’s programmes would go on for hours, a lull of violins and cellos lapping over the ice as the other man performs. By the time Geralt manages to get his breath back, the music swells and falls sharply, with Jaskier halting and posing. A roar from the crowd echoes around them.

On either side, he watches Eskel and Lambert stand with the rest, eventually hooking their arms through his and yanking him up. “ _Breathe_. He survived. You’re no good to him unconscious,” Eskel murmurs into his ear, cheering along with the crowd as Jaskier glides back to the holding area.

A broad smile is stretched across his lips. A good programme. One that he won’t insistently berate himself for later. He looks into the stand, scanning the flood of people around before his eyes eventually fall on to Geralt. His smile grows.

Geralt smiles back – or at least tries to. Nerves wrack him and twist his insides, but Eskel was right. He was great. _Beautiful_. Jaskier rejoins Yennefer by the edge of the ice. She gathers him into a sure hug, settling her hands on to his cheeks as he pulls away, muttering something to him before they slip away. Assurances. Praise. Promises that he did wonderfully.

“ _The score, please, for Jaskier Pankratz of Vengerberg Elite. His short programme score: 89.57.”_

A murmur laps through the crowd. Geralt’s brows knit together as the noise swells around him. He might not know a thing about skating but he knows a low score when he sees it. His gaze travels to Jaskier, spotting him just behind the gates leading into the rink. His brow is etched into a frown; one barely shaken off by Yennefer setting her hand on to his shoulder and leading him away.

When everyone rolls back into their seats, they sit through the announcements overhead. A short break before the long programmes start. Geralt casts a quick look to the scoreboard over one line of judges. Jaskier’s name is perched first. But Geralt’s eyes narrow.

**PANKRATZ, Jaskier – 89.57**

**MARX, Valdo – 88.41**

Lambert makes some sort of noise beside him. “I’ll never understand this judging shit,” he murmurs, hands stuffed back into his jacket pockets. He glances around, looking over the heads of people sitting around him. “So are there snacks here or...?”

Eskel snorts. “You’re not getting nachos or a damn beer. You can survive for another hour.”

“Another _hour_?!” Lambert groans, tilting his head back and gaping at the rafters overhead.

Geralt’s lip twitches. “I thought you were enjoying yourself?” he asks, nudging the other man’s shoulder with his.

“For your twink’s bit, sure,” Lambert shrugs. “He’s good, I guess. But do we have to sit through so many people? Jesus, I’m losing years over here.”

The long programmes will be a chance to put more distance between who’s in first and the rest of the field. Geralt watches the judges chatter among themselves for a moment, papers being shared and sage nods as they run their sharp eyes over each and every one of them. They look like clones of each other; pulled back hair and glasses hooked on to their noses, sharp eyes glaring over the rim of them as they watch each skater take to the ring. Even as each poor man smiled and gleamed at the judging table, trying to lure them into their programme, they were met by stone faces.

It’s a short break, with most people filing away and back again, gathering their signs and drinks that they brought. Lambert’s scowl sets back into his face. He can understand why. If they were at a game, they would all be drinking by now, with empty plastic cups of beer at their feet. Eskel would be elbow-deep into a plate of nachos and Lambert would risk years of his life, and his fingers, by stealing them.

_Ice Queen [12:28 ] – Thank you for coming. He appreciates that you’re all here. Even though he won’t shut up about it and it’s pissing me off. _

Geralt snorts. He taps back a quick reply.

**Mutt [12:29 ] – He would never let me live it down if I didn’t show up**.

_Ice Queen [12:29 ] – He would never let you **live** , you mean. I’d have to help drag your corpse out to the lower hills. No one thinks to look there_.

The commentator laps back over the crowd, announcing that they’re reading to start the long programmes. The first skater is already perched by the rink’s wall, switching his weight from skate to skate and hanging off every word their coach whispers to them before they push away.

The long programmes are four and a half minutes each, and with every skater that enters the rink, Jaskier’s name edges further and further down the electronic sign until it’s not there at all. Geralt swallows thickly. He’s seen aspects of Jaskier’s programme. He’s listened to the man regale him _in detail_ about what the story is and what kind of character he’ll play.

When Valdo glides back on to the rink, Lambert clears his throat. “Prick,” he grumbles, picking at his nails and looking around. The murmur of the crowd hides his comment, but it’s always good to check no immediate family members are around.

Valdo’s longer programme is just as flashy as the first, with more jewels and gems stuck on to the bodice and sleeves of his costume than any jeweller. They catch the light and the man is nothing more than a glittering beacon zooming across the ice, leaping into one jump and the next. His spins lose momentum half-way through; some of his landings are tight and he stumbles out of other jumps. Each time, Geralt glances down at the judges and see their poised pens scribbling across their sheets, docking more and more marks as the skate drags on.

The music swells into a crescendo, with Valdo twirling back into the centre point of the ice, and strikes a final pose. Applause rumbles around them, but it’s not as strong as the first time. The corners of Geralt’s mouth twitch into a smile. The man slips past his coach trying to catch him by his arm and bustles through the other skaters.

Geralt’s breath almost catches at the sight of Jaskier stepping out, lips pressed into a thin line and eyes focused. Composed and running through the routine in his mind. Yennefer mumbles something to him before he pushes away from the edge of the rink.

“ _Please welcome to the ice, representing Vengerberg Elite, Jaskier Pankratz_.”

Applause and cheers lap through the stands as Jaskier glides along the edges of the rink, his lips finally curling into a smile. Geralt’s fingers dig into his thighs, his knuckles white and the cold of the rink slowly robbing him of all feeling in his legs and hands.

Sombrely panicked violins lap over the ice as Jaskier pushes off, twirling and arms spread as he glides towards the edge of the rink. Each side-step of his skates only pushes him forward, building up speed as he dances around, preparing for his first jump.

_Achilles, Achilles, Achilles, come down  
Won’t you get up off, get up off the roof?  
You’re scaring us and all of us, some of us love you.  
Achilles, it’s not much but there’s proof. _

The familiar hum of music swells within the rink. The song that Jaskier has been listening to over and over again, humming under his breath, counting beats, even off of the ice. Jaskier’s face is pinched and pained as he looks around, spotting his mark for jumps, but for the lover his character is looking for.

Geralt watches, entranced. Jaskier has always been expressive. He imagines it’s needed for skating; when you’re trying to convince a panel of judges that you’re telling a story, while knocking out difficult jumps after the last. But the pain etched into his face, the way his footwork match the violins in the music, the anguish in the singer’s voice, as he looks for someone who isn’t even there.

Geralt’s heart aches.

The judges keep their gaze on Jaskier as he glides around the rink, taking long measured lines into every jump and spin. His lands are crisp and his spins don’t slow. He’s already doing a better and cleaner job than Valdo.

Every sharp and sure hit of his blades back on to the ice, the crowd applauds. It all fades away for Geralt. The noise, the brush of his teammates’ shoulders against his, the people sitting in front and behind him.

“Good job, Twinkle Toes! That’s it!”

Jaskier dances through his routine, reaching arms and hurried, neat steps that carry him through. One jump after another, leaps into the air and quick spins that Geralt almost misses by blinking. Gliding steps that sweep him past the judges. Eyes focused over the rims of their glasses, their pens keep poised to their pages, ready for the first stumble of Jaskier’s routine.

Lambert cranes his neck, getting a good look at Jaskier spinning into a deep squat. “ _Yes_ , Jask,” he claps, “come on.”

Eskel joins in; noticeably more measured. Geralt’s fingertips press into the meat of his thigh. If they weren’t there, they would be shaking and fidgeting. God, this is only supposed to be four and a half minutes. There isn’t even a timer to help him gauge how much time as passed.

The latter half of his routine is where Jaskier can claw back points. He explained it once, the odd rule that every jump in the second half of his routine is worth more because of a skater’s energy levels starting to drop. _No wonder_ , Geralt thinks, looking for the slightest hint on Jaskier’s face or body that he’s tiring. Every jump and spin and movement must be draining him.

Lambert claps sharply beside him. Around the rink, others are cheering too as Jaskier sweeps past them. Judges scowl and one throws a glance over his shoulder, glowering at the stands, but he turns back after a second.

_Loathe the way they light candles in Rome  
But love the sweet air of the votives.  
Hurt and grieve but don’t suffer alone;  
Engage with the pain as a motive._

_Today of all days, see  
How the most dangerous thing is to love;  
How you will feel and you’ll rise above. _

With his weight on the blades of his skates, Jaskier leans and bows his back, curling around and gliding in a circle. The crowd gets louder with their applause and cheering. Through the rush of blood in his ears, Geralt can hear Lambert crowing out encouragements with every jump Jaskier skates himself into.

_Be done with this now and get off the roof  
Can you hear me, Achilles? I’m talking to you.   
I’m talking to you.   
I’m talking to you.   
I’m talking to you.  
Achilles, come down.  
Achilles, come down. _

Jaskier steps out of his spin, arching his arm up into the air and looking to the horizon. As the music lulls to a gentle stop and Jaskier finishes his programme, a roar sweeps over the crowd. It’s deafening. Geralt’s eyes sting as he watches people stand up on to their feet, Jaskier’s blue eyes suddenly scanning the crowd and blinking back his own tears as he grins; finally able to shed the character he had been embodying.

“Yes! Well-fucking-done Jaskier!” Lambert roars through the crowd, raising his hands to clap above everyone else. Out of the corner of his eye, Geralt watches him lean over to his seat neighbour – a middle-aged woman with a teenage daughter. “That’s my teammate’s boyfriend. He’s amazing, isn’t he?”

A sturdy arm slips around Geralt’s shoulders and neck and he’s hugged close to Lambert’s side. “And you were worried! Look at him!”

Jaskier spins in one spot, a deep bow to every stand around the rink as he eventually glides away. He has a hand set to his chest, heaving and drawing in a breath. Geralt’s eyes prick with tears but he blinks them back, working through the lump stuck in his throat. Eskel nudges his shoulder, a bloom of warmth working through their jacket from where they’re touching. The man arches an eyebrow at him; always more in-tune with Geralt’s head and emotions than anyone else.

Geralt swallows and nods stiffly. _I’m alright_. The applause rings through the crowd for longer than usual, waiting until Jaskier has stepped off of the ice and is gathered into Yennefer’s arms in a tight hug. Jaskier is bundled away to another area, out of view for a moment, and Geralt manages to take a long and measured breath. He can’t imagine what it’s like for Jaskier watching him at his games.

“ _The score, please, for Jaskier Pankratz of Vengerberg Elite. His free-skate score: 170.43. His combined total: 260.00. He is currently in first place_.”

A murmur washes through the crowd, something that remains as most people look to the scoreboard and seeing Jaskier’s name just scrape past Valdo’s. A difference of a few tenths of points in programmes that were so different. The judges nod curtly after showing each other their papers and screens, and the next skater takes the ice.

* * *

“It’s bullshit,” Jaskier mutters, fidgeting with a paper napkin. The double cheeseburger that sits in front of him is apparently long forgotten about. As is the basket of fries, so he plucks a few from the tray, ignoring Jaskier’s scowl.

He had promised the skater and his coach a nice dinner, but apparently after the day that they had, some burger joint would do just fine. Yennefer picks her fries three at a time, her phone long forgotten about since leaving the rink. It seizes on the table a handful of times before she shoves it into her bag and throws the whole thing on to the floor. They’ve bundled into a small booth to the back of the restaurant. A few spectators from the rink are here too. Teenagers and kids with sparkled signs folded to their sides catch his eye; kids mostly that have spotted Jaskier and murmur to themselves, wondering if it would be okay to try and come over to talk to him.

Geralt’s arm around the man’s shoulder tightens, hugging him to his side. “You did great,” he assures, dragging Jaskier’s burger to him. “You won, didn’t you? Left that dick Valdo Marx in the dirt.”

Jaskier shoots a short glance over to the other side of the table, to where Yennefer is lounging and eating and paying absolutely no attention to him whatsoever. “Yeah,” he mumbles, “but my scores could have been higher. Someone should have submitted an inquiry like I asked.”

Yennefer, to her credit, has weathered enough years of Jaskier’s shit to be bothered by him. They skated together when they were both juniors, having a short career as pairs. Both of them had elite senior careers as singles, but apparently coaching is more Yennefer’s thing these days. She plucks more fries from her basket, glowering at Lambert when his hand wanders close and threatens to steal some. “I could have submitted an inquiry,” she says primly, “but you know as well as I do that the judges would only lower your score. You’re inviting their scrutiny on you by doing that. _Lambert Blake_ , if you steal my fries I’m cutting off your fingers.”

Jaskier huffs. Geralt threads his fingers through the hair at the man’s nape, fingertips pressing into the skin and muscle and working out the worse of the tension. It’s one of their habits. On the nights Jaskier does join him after practise, he’ll spend an hour letting his hands wander over every stretch of muscle gathered on the man’s body. And Jaskier does the same. He’s far too familiar with how to soothe Geralt’s muscles after being chucked and smashed against the rink’s walls after practice or a game.

With Jaskier pressed to his side and brought close with an arm around his shoulder, Geralt leans down and pecks a kiss to his temple. He lets his lips linger for a moment, breathing in the freshly showered scent of the other man. Jaskier hums, finally starting to slack and let go of his vendetta against the judges. Geralt leans down to Jaskier’s ear. “Have something to eat and enjoy the rest of the day,” he murmurs, just quiet enough for the two of them. He nods to the other side of the restaurant. “There are kids over there looking at you. They might want to come over.”

Jaskier’s eyes flicker over to the other side of the restaurant, to other booths lining the windowed walls and the tables scattered throughout the floor. A few teenagers nearby blush and look down at their food and giggler nervously between themselves.

Jaskier’s lips thin. “Alright,” he murmurs. He prods a finger to Geralt’s chest. “But you’re listening to me complain about the judges for the rest of the evening.”

* * *

“I hate doing these, honestly. The costume is nice. It’s beautiful. Don’t get me wrong. But I don’t even know what they’re looking for. What do they even want me to say? What do you think about this one, if I pose like this? Geralt? Geralt, are you even listening to me?”

He really isn’t until that moment. Geralt’s eyes flicker up from his phone, taking in the sight of Jaskier wearing a new skating costume for a meet in a few weeks. The curtains have been pulled to let in as much midday light as possible, with bright winter sun stretching into the room and catching every sequin and crystal on Jaskier’s costume. A _gift_ , according to Yennefer who dropped it off earlier that morning. A gift from some patron who offered to pay the full price of the custom made costume if Jaskier gave them a shout out on his social media.

The other man arches an eyebrow. “Which pose do you like better?” he asks, already moving into holding his weight more so on one leg, letting his hip tilt as he sets his hand there. His other pose, the one he prefers, is just the exact same but with his weight on his other foot.

Geralt lifts a shoulder, turning back to his phone. “Either is good.”

He hears Jaskier sigh, mumbling something under his breath about _dumb hockey bros not knowing anything_ before turning back to the mirror, phone perched in his hand. He likes spending his free hours lounging in Jaskier’s apartment, especially on days where his classes are in the morning, and he won’t have to leave for practice until six in the evening. He’s stretched along the man’s bed, reclined against a nest of pillows he acquired from himself.

He might skip practice altogether to stay here, but he knows that Vesemir Morhen would show up and personally drag Geralt to the rink by his ear.

Jaskier doesn’t look at his mentions. There was a time where he did; when he spent more time staring down at his phone, running his eyes over every tweet and comment that included his name, just to see what people thought of him and his skating. Geralt got him to stop. It wasn’t good for him. Now he barely looks at comments or mentions of his name at all, keeping his focus on training and being happy with himself.

That’s not to say that other people keep track of him, though.

Geralt’s phone buzzes. He blinks at the sight of Yennefer’s name staring back at him.

_Ice Queen [10:15 ] – [attached tweet]_

_Ice Queen [10:15 ] – I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. _

_Ice Queen [10:15 ] – But know that I’m laughing. _

He clicks into the tweet, frowning when a video pops up. It’s from the meet; he recognises the stands of the rink and the packed seats around whoever is filming. But his frown deepens at the sight of Lambert filling the screen, with him and Eskel sitting beside him. Lambert’s familiar _loud_ voice crowing out encouragements, clapping along with Jaskier’s programme and every jump he landed successfully. Beneath the tweet, there’s a string of videos, with comments stacked underneath them. Geralt’s eyes narrow with every line he runs over.

[is _that_ his boyfriend?? holy shit]

[oh my god his boyfriend is so cute wtf]

[jaskier’s boyfriend is the only man allowed to have rights]

[does anyone know where i can find cute, supportive himbos like this one?]

[isn’t he part of the defence on the grey wolves hockey team?]

Geralt’s thumbs hover over his screen for a moment, but his phone eventually blinks to black. _What the fuck?_ His phone buzzes again, and he blinks at the preview message strewn across the top of his screen.

** WOLF PACK **

**_big bear [10:23 ] congrats to the lovely couple x_ **

**_big bear [10:23 ] apologies to aiden. a fruit basket and flowers should arrive by noon_ **

_lambert’s handler [10:25 ] well this is awkward_

_lambert’s handler [10:25 ] not the best thing to read in the middle of a lecture_

**_big bear [10:26 ] focus on your studies. maybe you’ll find a lambert-sized replacement there x_ **

_ baby wolf [10:27 ] you’re all fucking pricks, you know that? _

His phone buzzes again; a new separate message.

_lamb chop [10:29 ] you know i would never try and steal your man right?_

_lamb chop [10:29 ] he’s great and all but too much of a twink for my liking_

_lamb chop [10:30 ] that, and i’m seeing someone_

He knows. He _knows_ , but it doesn’t stop him from clicking back into every social media that he can search the name Jaskier Pankratz on and scrolls through the pictures and videos of one of his teammates instead.

All of the comments blend into each other after a few minutes. All of them calling _Lambert_ Jaskier’s boyfriend, and Geralt’s teeth almost crack with how tightly he holds his jaw. Whatever logical side of him that knows this is all just a silly misunderstanding is slowly hidden away by a haze falling over him.

“What do you think?” Jaskier asks, still regarding himself in the lancet mirror to the other side of the freshly cleaned room. Well, _clean_ is certainly a way to look at it. Geralt is definitely not going to comment that it’s just the stretch of room viewed in the mirror that’s clean; not the other corners of the room where Jaskier just pushed and stacked the rest of his shit for a good picture.

Geralt’s tongue sits heavily in his mouth.

Jaskier lowers himself down on to his knees, lounging with an arm behind him as he tilts his head. The crystals and sequins in his costume catch what little watery winter light struggle in through the windows. He purses his lips, hooding his eyes. “I don’t even know what they’re looking for,” he muses, lifting his chin a bit higher. Within a second, he shakes his head and stands again, looking down at his phone. “How do you even make a blatantly sponsored post look candid?”

Geralt is up and stalking across the room in seconds, clearing the space in strides as one of his arms coils around Jaskier’s waist. In the mirror, he watches Jaskier open his mouth, just about to complain at him touching the costume that could cost him hundreds of dollars if he damages it. Instead, Geralt presses against the length of his back, catching his chin with his fingers and turning his head to his. “Your programme is about chasing down a loved one, right? To stop him from doing something dumb and proving how much he’s loved. Why don’t you show love in your post?”

Jaskier blinks, hooked on every word rumbled out of Geralt’s throat. Hooded eyes drop to his lips, Jaskier’s nose brushing his, and he nods. “Yeah, uh,” he murmurs, looking back to the mirror and checking they’re in frame with his phone. His free hand sets against Geralt’s arm, fingers curling into the soft fabric of his sweatshirt. When he turns around, Geralt has to stop a rumble from climbing up his throat. Familiar blue eyes blink back at him. “Are you sure? I know we said we’d keep things to ourselves for a bit and— _hmmf_ —”

Geralt catches Jaskier in a kiss, humming as plush lips move against his. Distantly, he hears the tell-tale _click_ of Jaskier’s phone taking a picture, but it’s long forgotten about. Jaskier’s fingers curl against his arm, he leans back against Geralt’s chest and hums into their kiss. At the first brush of Geralt’s wandering hands along his hips and abdomen, the other man gasps. “Geralt,” he breathes, setting his hand on to Geralt’s chest. “I cannot _begin_ to explain how expensive this costume is—”

“Take it off then.”

Jaskier blinks. Blue ocean eyes that catch the sheer winter light streaking into the room. His mouth hangs open for a second as Geralt’s words register with him. “Yeah, _yeah_ , absolutely,” he says, pushing Geralt back. “Bed. Bed, _now_.”

Geralt smirks, watching deft and nimble fingers start on the laces and clasps of the skin-tight glittering costume clung to every muscle and curve of Jaskier’s body. He ambles back towards the bed, letting himself roll back into stretching out along it, his hand settling on to his thigh.

It’s as graceful as he can make it. The costume sits to every line of him, and it’s a struggle to wrangle it off of him. Geralt’s grin grows as he watches Jaskier huff with every freed limb he manages to get out. His hair is messed and brushing his eyes, and cheeks beginning to flush. Geralt snorts. “Sexy,” he hums.

Jaskier’s face twists into a scowl. “You’re awful,” he murmurs, folding the costume as gently as he can before setting it down on the top of his dresser. Clad in just briefs, Jaskier makes for the foot of his bed, climbing up on to it with nimble movements. Geralt lets his legs fall to the side to let the other man cover him. Jaskier’s lips curl into a fond smile as he’s lured into a kiss.

Jaskier is a sure and familiar weight against him, and Geralt hums against his lips as he winds his arms around him, gathering him close. Not that he would want to be anywhere else. No matter how many times he’ll roll his eyes and huff at Geralt spending all day in his apartment, lounging around and doing nothing, he always appreciates the company.

He kisses him until his lungs ache for breath, and even as he parts them, he leans forward and sets his forehead against Jaskier’s.

The man’s fingers tap rhythmically against his collarbone. “So, not that I’m complaining,” he murmurs, eyes lowered and watching Geralt’s lips, “but what’s brought this on? I’m sure it isn’t _just_ from me modelling my new outfit.”

Geralt snorts. “No, though you do look gorgeous in it,” he replies. He can feel a wash of colour slowly creeping on to his cheeks, warming his skin. “I, uh, I got a text from Yenn. She saw some tweets, uh. People had videos of Lambert cheering you on yesterday. They think he’s...they think he’s your boyfriend.”

The words sit between them for a moment. Jaskier’s lips press into a thin line, moments before a short and sharp laugh puffs out of him. “Are you _jealous_?” he lilts, shifting so he’s flush against Geralt’s chest, and their hips press together. A smile curls along his lips as he reaches out, catching Geralt’s chin between his thumb and finger. “Is Geralt Rivia being _possessive_ , hmm? Want everyone in the world to know that I’m _yours_?”

Jaskier Pankratz is a _tease_ ; knowing exactly the right words to lull in the right kind of voice to have him grappled in the other man’s arms and kissed senseless. Geralt’s teeth catch Jaskier’s bottom lip, pulling and luring out a gasp. The other man grins into their kiss. “You know,” Jaskier hums when they’ve pulled away, “Lambert is an attractive guy. I wouldn’t say no—”

A sharp laugh rips out of him as Geralt flips them over, depositing Jaskier into the mound of pillows he had collected for himself. There’s no point in trying to kiss the smirk off of his lips. Jaskier is a little shit, and with every word he lulls to wind Geralt up, the more he’ll just enjoy it. All he can do is run his lips down the man’s neck, humming against the skin as Jaskier tilts his head, letting him roam.

Beneath him, Jaskier squirms. He lifts his hips just enough to grind themselves together; not nearly enough pressure either of them needs, but luring a sweet whine out of Jaskier’s throat all the same. The man sets his hands on to Geralt’s chest, fingers curled into the fabric of his tee and catching. His grip tightens at the first scrape of Geralt’s teeth to the bottom of his neck. “Off,” he tugs at the shirt, “now, I want to see you.”

Geralt pulls away, ignoring the slight whine from Jaskier as he settles back on to his thighs. His tee is up and over his head within a blink, chucked off of the bed and forgotten about. Blue crustal eyes trail down his chest; the swell of muscle and smattering of hair, all the way down towards the belt of his jeans. Jaskier leans back against the pillows, letting his arms spread to either side of him. “All of it,” he nods to Geralt’s lower half.

Geralt’s eyes narrow, but nimble fingers catch his belt and have it off, with his jeans and underwear too, before he prowls back over Jaskier, pressing him into the bed. “You’re such a fucking brat,” he murmurs, letting his hand ghost down the man’s bare side and towards the hem of his briefs. He listens to Jaskier’s breath hitch and catches in his throat when his fingers delve underneath, running along the warm and soft skin there. His words rumble out from his chest and warm against Jaskier’s neck. “Trying to rile me up, are you?”

Jaskier hums. His arms move, coiling heavily around Geralt’s shoulders and keeping him close. “If that’s how you want to look at it, then sure.” Geralt pulls away from his neck, meeting bright blue eyes with slightly hooded lids. The first dull haze of pleasure is already starting to cloud them, even now; just by lying pressed against each other. The corners of Jaskier’s lips twitch. Familiar long fingers card into the hair at the back of his head, fingertips pressing against his scalp and massaging. “You want to show people I’m yours? Do you want them to know that I belong to someone else? That I’m not for them.”

Geralt can feel his cock starting to twitch and fill, his hips rolling to grind against Jaskier’s. The smile on the man’s face grows. “Poor baby,” he clicks his tongue. “Show me, then. Show me I’m yours.”

They’ve already established things in the past. Skating in a cold rink is fucking _difficult_ after being fucked the night before – or even in the afternoon of. Neither of them particularly want to explain why they’re wincing at certain turns or why Jaskier can’t quite fully commit to a bending glide with his leg stretched into the air. There’s a terrible suspicion that both Vesemir and Yennefer already know. They’ve both seen it all before with others in the past. And neither Geralt of Jaskier are particularly shy when it comes to marks. If Yennefer has ever caught a glimpse of a bloomed purple bite at the base of Jaskier’s neck during practice, she’s never brought it up. Thank God.

But now, Geralt catches Jaskier’s thigh, hooking his leg up and hover his hips and grinding against him. A moan slips from Jaskier’s lips. Another when Geralt reaches for the bedside table, only a stretch of his body away. He roots around in it for a moment until he pulls out the bottle of lube inside and a condom. Jaskier’s eyelids flutter closed, his mouth parted and lips full as he moans and groans attempts of Geralt’s name. Their cocks leak and rub against each other, and Geralt wets one hand and catches them both in a firm grip, stroking them in the way he knows Jaskier’s likes.

The man’s lips stretch around a silent noise, his breath caught for a moment before he reaches out, a hand swatting and grabbing at Geralt’s arm. “ _Fuck_ ,” he bites down on his tongue.

Geralt tightens his grip. “Let me hear you, baby,” he rumbles, watching Jaskier fight back sounds until he can’t. Geralt watches the tendons and lines in his neck stretch as Jaskier’s head rolls back on to the pillows, glossy eyes blinking at the ceiling. A growl works its way up Geralt’s throat. “That’s it, good boy. Could you cum like this, baby? Are you going to come for me if I ask?”

Jaskier’s eyelids flutter closed. He nods, broken and almost numbly; but his head falls forward, eyes searching for Geralt’s and holding them. “I’m close,” he gasps. Geralt swallows at the sight of Jaskier’s hand going to his chest, fingertips teasing a nipple and circling the bud. “ _Fuck_ , Geralt, yes.”

He quickens his hand, watching Jaskier’s lips blush and plump. He wants to kiss them. He wants to cover the man’s body with his and kiss and bite at those lips that are teasing him. But he wants to _watch_ ; Jaskier coming apart is a sight, one he has committed to memory, but one he likes looking at again and again. “Cum for me, baby,” Geralt lulls, twirling his wrist around them both. His own cock leaks wet against his fingers, but Jaskier looks to be teetering on the edge now, almost lost to it. He bites down on his own pleasure. He can wait.

Jaskier’s voice cracks around Geralt’s name, eyes widening for a moment before he lets his head fall back on to the pillows. He cums over his abdomen, streaks of release stretching even to his lower chest. As soon as he starts to slacken into the mattress, trying his best to catch his breath back, Geralt’s hand falls away from them. He leans over the edge of the bed, catching one of his many worn shirts he leaves here just in case. It’s wrinkled and he’s pretty sure Jaskier has been wearing it to sleep in, but he wipes his hand on it, catching the last remnants of the man on him.

His cock aches and twitches, but he lets the tee fall away and he settles back between Jaskier’s legs, grabbing the discarded bottle of lube and adds a drop more on to his palm, curling his fingers through it.

Bleary blue eyes watch him; eyes that wander to his hand and watch. Jaskier’s chest heaves as he claws to get his breath back. “I’ll be with you in a minute, darling,” he murmurs, wincing as he stretches out. He lets his arms hang above his head, lost to the mounds of pillows behind him. His eyes don’t move from Geralt’s hand, even as his other smoothes over the outside of Jaskier’s thigh, luring his legs down from where he hooked them over himself. “Just have to catch my breath—oh, _oh,_ okay, _what_ —”

Geralt throws his legs over Jaskier’s hips, thick thighs pinning the man down on to the bed. Wide eyes blink up at him. Jaskier reaches, his hands settling on to Geralt’s hips. His blue eyes widen at the sight of Geralt reaching behind himself. At the first brush of his finger against himself, Geralt’s eyes flutter shut. Jaskier’s fingers tighten against his hips, digging into the swell of muscle there and leaving red marks behind. The hold only tightens as he pushes a slicked finger inside of himself.

When he opens his eyes again, he’s faced with an awe-struck Jaskier. “You have practice later,” he murmurs, his eyes darting between Geralt’s. “Why don’t I—”

“I want this,” Geralt murmurs, moaning softly around a plume of pleasure that tremors through him as he brushes that spot inside of himself. “I want you.” He lets his eyes wander over the body below him; lithe and slender, skin flecked with a few freckles. Geralt leans forward, setting on hand on to the bedding beside Jaskier’s waist. His fingers curl into the fabric as he stretches himself, breath beginning to thin as his cock aches and leaks on to Jaskier’s abdomen.

Beneath him, he can feel Jaskier start to harden again. The blue in the man’s eyes is slowly swallowed by his pupils, locked on to Geralt’s face as he moans. “Getting yourself ready just for me, are you?” he murmurs, the words falling from Jaskier’s bitten-plump lips. He tightens his hold on Geralt’s hips, digging his fingertips into the swell of muscle there and hoping that some mark will be left. Geralt watches the spark of something flash behind the man’s eyes. “Going to practise sore and stretched? Knowing that I’m the one who did that to you?”

Geralt’s eyelids flutter closed.

There’s a short breathless laugh out of the man below him. “I’m the only one who gets to touch you like this, aren’t I, baby?” Jaskier hums, letting one hand wander up along Geralt’s side, feeling him tremble underneath his touch. Geralt’s throat bobs as Jaskier’s fingers brush his chest. “How many fingers, darling?”

Whatever breath was caught in his throat punches out of him. “Two,” Geralt gasps, curling his fingers and brushing his prostate. Pleasure tremors through him, and it’s a struggle to keep looking at the eyes watching him.

Jaskier hums. “Add another,” he murmurs, tracing his fingers along the swell of Geralt’s chest, brushing lightly over his budded nipple. Just as another finger slips into Geralt, the man below him sweeps his hand over Geralt’s chest and abdomen, trailing down towards his cock. It twitches as Jaskier curls his fingers around it, tugging it slowly. “Good. You look gorgeous, baby.”

Geralt’s fingers slip out of him. The crystal blue eyes watching him, a hand curled around his cock and stroking with every plunge of his fingers inside of himself, Jaskier’s lulled words washing over him – it’s too much. He gasps as he reaches for the other man, rolling the condom over him and stroking him to hardness before setting it against him. “That’s it, darling,” Jaskier hums, lifting his chin and watching Geralt sinks down on to it. “ _Fuck_ , good boy, Geralt. Christ, you feel incredible.”

He’s covered Jaskier against this bed before, pinning him down with hands and his own body as he’s fucked him into the mattress. And Jaskier’s walls have heard _far_ too much of them ever since they started sleeping together. But on occasion, when he needs to be wrecked and reminded, Geralt props himself above the other man and rides him with everything he has.

He lets himself enjoy the full feeling of Jaskier inside of him, his cock pressing against every wall and brushing his prostate. Tremors of pleasure shake through him, even as he sits and lets their hips lie flush with each other, and his hand curls into the bedding until his knuckles turn white.

Jaskier’s hands settle back on to his hips, leaving Geralt’s cock hang between them and turn ruddy and leak. He’s close already. The familiar stretch of the other man is enough to edge him towards release, and he has to keep himself still and _breathe_ just to rock back, to make sure he doesn’t spill early.

The hips below him shift, rocking gently and lulling him forward. Geralt’s breath catches in his throat. “So tight around me,” Jaskier murmurs, eyes watching Geralt with awe. The built figure perched on him, trembling as shivers of pleasure shake through him and threaten to pull him under. Though once the first words tumble past his lips, the rest follow and wash over the man above him. Geralt’s brows knit, focused, but the words brush past him all the same.

Geralt catches Jaskier’s gaze, holding it as he lifts himself up, feeling the brush of the man’s cock along his walls as he perches above him before dropping back down again. Cut-off groans and attempts at the other’s name chokes out of both of them. Jaskier’s grip on his hips tightens as Geralt lifts his hips again and again, fucking himself down on to Jaskier’s cock and feeling himself clench and grip around him. A moan tumbles from his lips before he can clamp his jaw shut. “Jas,” he gasps, eyelids flickering shut as every drive of the man’s length into him has him edging further and further towards the edge again.

He feels movement. The bed below them shifts. Just as he opens his eyes, Geralt’s view is full of Jaskier sitting up, carding his arms around him and holding him close. His hips move, thrusting up as best as he can with the man’s weight on him. One of Jaskier’s hands settles on to the swell of his ass, fingers brushing his stretched hole. “You’re going to be sore at practice, baby,” Jaskier murmurs, his bitten-soft lips just inches away from Geralt’s own. Jaskier’s hooded eyes wander down to them, watching each puffed out gasp and moan spill out. “Will you think of me, hmm? Know that I’m the only one who can do this to you?”

His answer catches in his throat. One of his arms coils around Jaskier’s shoulders, holding them both close to each other as he rocks back on to the man. But he nods. Jaskier sets their foreheads together and warm shred breath lingers between them. He nods and his brows tighten. The familiar swell of pressure starting to tighten in his core—

“ _Fuck,_ baby,” Jaskier breathes, his arms tightening around Geralt. His hips try and lift, fucking up to meet every slap of Geralt’s hips. “You feel so good, so tight around me. Are you close? Are you going to come for me?”

“ _Jask_ —”

“—Let go, darling, let me see you,” Jaskier lulls, the words washing over Geralt as his breath catches and his hips fall back down on to Jaskier’s cock one last time. His vision whitens as he comes, clenching around Jaskier and mouth stretched around a noiseless moan. Distantly, he can hear the familiar hum of Jaskier’s voice; revering words and edging himself closer and closer—

Geralt whines when he feels the other man come, twitching inside of him and flooding the condom. Geralt huffs a short breath, setting his nose into the hollow of Jaskier’s neck, inhaling as much of the man’s scent as he can, letting it coat the roof of his mouth and almost suffocate him.

Arms coil around his waist and he’s moved. A grunted sound punches out of him as his back hits the plush mattress. Jaskier familiar weight settles above him before trying to pull away, huffing a gentle laugh as Geralt’s arms tighten; not quite ready to be left alone to the cold. “I’m literally going to get something to clean us up,” Jaskier murmurs, trying to pry Geralt’s arms off of him. Eventually, two muscular legs hook around his waist to join the effort. Jaskier laughs. “ _Geralt_.”

 _Fine._ His arms and legs fall away, and a familiar hum of pain worms through him. It’s a soreness he delights in; that he’ll linger in as he tries to catch his breath again while the other man pads around the room. Jaskier fetches an already ruined shirt, cleaning up what he can until one of Geralt’s arm hangs off of the bed, seeking him out.

He opens his eyes – _when did he even close them?_ – just as Jaskier shuffles back on to the bed, climbing over Geralt to nestle into the space between him and the wall. Jaskier has all the grace in the world on the ice, but in moments when it’s just the two of them like this, he’s a mess of limbs coiling and tugging himself to fit snugly against Geralt’s side, burrowing into the warmth of him.

He’s tired. His bones are sinking, dragging him further down into the mattress. He couldn’t move even if he tried. The thought of going to practise in a few hours almost makes him groan. With Jaskier bundled against him, he doesn’t think he could move from this place even if he tried.

 _Maybe_ he could skip this practice. Make up some excuse that he’s sick, or hung-over. It wouldn’t be the first time Vesemir got that call from him. Though, he doesn’t put it past the man to try and root him out of wherever it is that he’s hiding – and he _really_ doesn’t want Vesemir knocking down Jaskier’s door just to drag him to practise by the ear.

“I saw you, by the way,” Jaskier hums, running his lips over the ridge of Geralt’s jaw, revelling in the scratch of his light beard. “Having a damn near panic attack up in the stands. Every jump I did I thought you were going to vomit. You’re worse than a rink mom.”

Geralt musters just enough energy to land a swat at Jaskier’s hip. “Don’t _ever_ call me a rink mom.”

The other man muffles his laugh against Geralt’s jaw. “I think you could pull it off, you know,” Jaskier muses, “the asymmetric bob, yoga pants, gilet—”

“ _Jaskier_.”

“—Making snide comments about the other moms’ girls, sipping your overpriced shitty coffee—”

Jaskier’s words break into a gasp as Geralt seizes his waist, knowing exactly where Jaskier’s most ticklish points are.

* * *

**jaskierpankratz** [( _picture post_ ) i think i should clear some things up. ya’ll are so cute, i’m crying. _this_ is my boyfriend, geralt. he’s the wolves’ star centre (and playing a game this weekend so ya’ll better go and show some support!) the guy in the video is one of his teammates, and a *friend*. i would NEVER date lambert blake, ew. this is the guy for me. love you @grivia <3]

 **lambert_blake** [is this how you’re breaking up with me? in front of all of these people? rude.]

 **jaskierpankratz** [@ **taylormade** aiden come collect your man]

 **lambert_blake** [who is this ‘aiden’? another one of your side hoes?]

 **taylormade** [couldn’t deal with him for more than a day, huh? good to know i’m not alone]

 **grivia** [this is why you’re his handler]

 **lambert_blake** [@ **grivia** stay out of this you or i’m going to ram you into the rink walls next practise]

 **jaskierpankratz** [kinky. can i watch?]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, even though this fic is "officially" over, I may add a few chapters to it if inspiration comes; so don't be surprised to see it pop back up every now and again 🥰

**Author's Note:**

> you know, sometimes you just got to write a fic that isn't about slutty crimelords lol
> 
> tumblrs  
> yourqueenforayear (personal) || agoodgoddamnshot (writing)
> 
> twitter  
> @eyesupmarksman
> 
> Kudos & Comments gladly appreciated!


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